


fair weather

by More_night



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Victorian Undertones, happy fic, theyre happy im not kidding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-13 14:22:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18470743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/More_night/pseuds/More_night
Summary: The day is warmer than expected and the crews of Erebus and Terror play football. Fitzier, with some (very tiny) Jopson/Little. Set between 1x06 and 1x07. Canon compliant.





	fair weather

 

* * *

 

 

Francis pauses his reading of George Back to look up at James. In the last two months, the younger officer has taken a decade of age. His face is lined deeply now, bearing the traces of scurvy, no doubt, but also of the concerns his mind frets over, day and night: their 900-miles march, the leak which has sprung in Erebus's hold two weeks past, their spoiled provisions, the morale of the men withering like a delicate thing; and the carnivale - of course - of which they have never really spoken. Not that Francis has not attempted conversation, but James, always, has rebuffed him, sometimes firmly. It is difficult for Francis to blame him now, as he knows well what it is to keep one's most dreaded thoughts walled off; he also knows that eventually, these walls, no matter how strongly built, will collapse.  
  
A knock on the doorframe rouses James from his charts and Francis from his watching.  
  
"Yes?" Francis says.  
  
"Captains," Edward Little greets them. "The men have taken advantage of today's fair weather to play football on the ice."  
  
"So we heard," Francis says. The windows of Terror's great cabin are cracked open to vent out the stuffy atmosphere of the ship, smelling of burned coal and humid wool. The outside Arctic air is cool still - it is only March - but it carries the ice's improbably pure odor of winter and whiteness. He and James have been listening to the cries of the men playing below; their enthusiasm is a good sound to hear. "It's good. Keeps the men occupied, and entertained."  
  
Edward fidgets with his hat. His cheeks are colored, his eyes are alight and he seems keen. Francis has not seen him in such good humor since Sir John died. "Next game has officers and mates playing," Edward ventures. "Erebus versus Terror."  
  
James spreads his hands. It appears Edward's good spirits are contagious. It has been some time since Francis has seen James smile. Yet he does, when he says, "And let me guess, Edward: teammates are wanting?"  
  
The Lieutenant nods. "Two on the Erebus team, one for Terror, sir."  
  
The two Captains share a gaze. "We could use the distraction, I suppose," Francis eventually says. "Not that I'll be joining you as a player. My back wouldn't forgive me."  
  
"Oh come _on_ , Francis," James says.  
  
"Jopson," Francis calls his young steward, who is only a few steps behind Edward in the hallway.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Do you play football?"  
  
"Me, sir?" Jopson's eyebrows travel high on his pale brow. "Not since I was a boy."  
  
"Since your boyhood is likely less of a thing past than my own," Francis says, "my place on the Terror team is yours, if you want."  
  
Edward turns expectant eyes to his fellow Terror and pats him on the shoulder. "Join us, Thomas."  
  
Jopson blushes and grins. "Very well. Erebites don't know what's in store for them," he says, adding, "sirs," as a near afterthought.  
  
James Fitzjames is not a man to ignore a challenge. "I'll take you at your word, Thomas," he warns.  
  
As they grab their outer layers and prepare to head out, Francis holds James back. He wants to say that he understands his pain as if he felt it himself, that he is mortified of how he acted prior to his illness, that he has abandoned James and that he regrets it, that he wishes... But perhaps he cannot bring himself to say those things, or perhaps James already knows them - it remains that not a word makes it past his lips.  
  
James breaks the silence. "The distraction _will_ do us good, Francis."  
  
Nodding, Francis grasps James's forearm. "Be mindful of the weather. The cold here is insidious. Gloves _and_ wigs for all," he says. "Yourself included."

 

 

 

And out they go.  
  
The sun outside is bright and high indeed, so much that some of the assembled crewmen wear their snow goggles. They have enjoyed the clemency of the weather these past few days, even if it would take many more, warmer days to affect the ice itself. Not that it changes anything for their march south. Still, an early and kinder spring can mean more abundant game.  
  
Although, Francis reminds himself, it is best not to crowd the mind with hope now.  
  
The football field the men have cleared is halfway between Terror and Erebus, wedged between two tall, angled ice ridges. The ice has been made as smooth as possible, but some chunks and blocks of ice remain, signaled to the players' attention with flags. Oars and poles frame the goals at both ends of the field.  
  
With the ships frozen in, it has always been difficult to find everyone an occupation; but since they have begun the preparations to walk out, more men are busy than usual. Still, a good half of the combined crews are attending, chatting amongst themselves. They crowd the imaginary lines of the playing field. Francis walks through them until he can find himself a comfortable spot, near John Bridgens. Around them, the men are placing bets, exchanging tobacco and notes for their grog rations of that evening.  
  
"What are the odds?" Francis asks Bridgens.  
  
"Three to one in Erebus's favor, sir, I'm afraid."  
  
Francis lights his pipe. "They do seem to have more solid players," he admits. "But we'll see what the game brings."  
  
Erebus is, in all appearances, clearly advantaged. With six players on each side, both teams are smaller than a proper game would require; and so is their field. Edward Little captains the Terror team, with John Irving goaling. Along with Jopson, there are Lieutenant Hodgson and mate Thompson, as well as John Lane, their boatswain. The Erebus team is led by James. Le Vesconte is goaling. Mates Des Voeux and Couch are there, as well as icemaster Reid and Mr. Weekes, their carpenter. Master Collins and Thomas Blanky are refereeing.  
  
Off the side, topping the ice ridge, Francis sees Dr. Goodsir and Lady Silence, together. Goodsir points at the field, and at the players, in turn, explaining the rules of their game. If Lady Silence's wary frown is any indication, she is puzzled that anyone would judge this suitable leisure. Too great a risk of injury perhaps, or of sweating under too warm clothing, or of freezing should one shed their layers. The Netsilik, Francis knows, are scrupulously vigilant of all that can kill you here; in their defense, almost everything can and will kill you.  
  
Silence sees him and Francis nods in greeting. She nods back.  
  
Then the game starts and the men around him cheer and whoop loudly.  
  
Caution be damned, Francis thinks; they needed that.

 

 

 

It's been resolved to play two halves of merely thirty minutes each. The players are wearing numerous layers of wool, but have removed their heavy coats or slops. They tap their feet on the ground to warm them, waiting for the ball, blowing breath in their joined, gloved hands.  
  
Expectedly, the game starts with Erebus taking the lead. James is a visibly gifted player (somehow, Francis did not doubt he would be), as are Des Voeux and Mr. Weekes, despite his age. On Terror's side, Little and Hodgson fight fiercely, although they cannot stop Des Voeux from scoring first.  
  
As the game unfolds, however, it is Jopson who creates a resounding surprise, neatly nesting the ball in the narrow space between Le Vesconte's extended foot and the pole.  
  
Little comes up from behind Jopson to ruffle his wig askew atop his raven hair. The young steward beams with pride and joy. Even James stops by his side to give him a congratulatory pat on the shoulder.  
  
The second half starts as the sun begins to lower. Men in the crowd heat their hands near the two portable stoves they have brought near the lines; others rub their arms to make them warmer.  
  
James takes the ball easily from Hodgson; he dribbles along the outer line on the western side of the field. He stops before Little and hesitates. He could send the ball to Des Voeux, but Hodgson covers him now and won't miss his chance this time. James tilts his head up and scans the field around him.  
  
His breath comes in long exhales of mist from his mouth; his cheeks are flushed with effort and his eyes shine. His long legs and narrow feet shuffle the ball breezily about. Francis finds himself mesmerized and unable to look away. James's dark eyes meet his and Francis's face must communicate much of his fascination, since James holds his gaze.  
  
The moment lasts, perilous and frail.  
  
But James's unlikely pause has given Jopson an advantage. The steward seizes it and steals the ball aptly from between James's feet, throwing the game in reverse and passing the ball promptly to Edward, who scores, shouting his win.

 

 

 

The Erebus team later prevails and wins 4 to 3. Francis has bet on Terror and lost a good pouch of tobacco to Blanky. ("You bet _against_ your own ship, Thomas?" Francis had asked, mocking outrage.) The men have packed the crates and stoves they had brought, and begun their return to the ships in time for supper. They do need warm food. A northern wind has risen and the horizon is crowded with heavy, rolling clouds.  
  
His officers have much enjoyed the game. Francis can tell now how needed the respite was. At the end, Little has put his hat on Jopson, crowning him as their prime player.  Francis has not seen this many smiling faces in... months. Perhaps years.  
  
He waits for James. They walk together, closing the march of the men back to the ships.  
  
The early setting sun turns the sea-water ice's usual pale blue into a dark color, something nearly purple. Rays of sunlight cut above the top of the ridges around them. The light brushes James's face, and it appears golden and ablaze. The sight brings Francis the greatest comfort he has found in anything in a while. For now, he does not give the feeling much thought; he only lets it spread in his chest, like the warmth it is.  
  
James has thrown his greatcoat over his shoulders, not closing it. "I admit I needed that," he says.  
  
"We all did," Francis returns quietly.  
  
"Even as it caused you to lose your bet?"  
  
"Seeing good cheer on your face again is worth much more than a pouch of tobacco, James."  
  
"I did let gloom overtake me these past weeks."  
  
"I have let gloom overtake me for years," Francis confesses. "Perhaps even longer."  
  
James pauses their walk. "I'm..." he starts. "I'm glad you're here, Francis. Of all people who could be here with me, at this end of the world, I'm happy it is you."  
  
For the most peculiar of seconds, Francis returns to the Franklins' London house. Part of him is here in the Arctic, and part of him is back there, in the chart room, lined with bookshelves. James's face, his long hair curled by sweat and wind, his deep, dark eyes, settle over the ones of Sophia Cracroft in his mind. Francis steps forward and clasps James at the shoulders. His arms, underneath his layers, do not feel that different from Sophia's. "It is a strange thing to say. But there is," Francis says, "nowhere else I'd rather be than here with you now."  
  
Where Sophia's face was closed and firm, as he had spoken these words to her (and he had failed to see it for so long, Francis thinks, that it should shame him), James's is open and free. He clasps Francis's forearms back, swallowing, choosing his words. "Then we must be men born for the strangest things," he says, softly.  
  
A last ray of sun catches James's eye. It gleams.  
  
Francis holds this ember in his mind, delighting in how light-headed it makes him, as they make their way back.

 

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> The little I know about soccer (aka Victorian football) comes from phys ed classes during which I intently tried to learn and participate as little as I could, so my bad if anything is off there.


End file.
